Don’t Stop Believing - December 2019

Michael, our 9-year-old, has shown an ability to handle mature discussions. More and more, we’ve encouraged him with honest answers to his inquiries about the nightly news; we’ve helped him think through underlying motivations for the drama-de-jour at school; and we’ve explained that “Yeah Buddy, you need to shower every day now, because as you get older your body changes, and well, you…”

“Stink. Just say it, Dad,” Michael laughs. “I get pretty stinky.”

The only other childhood atmosphere still hovering around Michael, like his occasional body odor, which Wifey and I have really tried to preserve for him, is the magic, the wonderful suspension of disbelief that constitutes some of the best memories of childhood, especially around Christmastime. Michael and his younger sister Jane are knocking on the door of that phase of life when Jean Piaget, the renowned child psychologist, admits that this childish magic evaporates into the “concrete operational stage” of early adolescence.

So, it was perhaps not the best parental judgment call, when Wifey and I allowed Michael to participate in a game of KinderPerfect: A Card Game for Parents. For those not familiar with the game, it’s a lot like Apples-to-Apples or Cards Against Humanity, but geared specifically for parents so that they can laugh at funny pairings of… “The birthday party was ruined by_____________” and various answers, like “a screaming kid that does not belong to you,” “Doing the bare a#% minimum,” and “sharts.”

We should have thought through some of the potential pitfalls before allowing Michael to play alongside the adults. When the card “Forgetting to move the Elf on the Shelf” was paired with “The reason Mommy drinks,” we knew the gig was up.

Wifey and I had to quickly curate that remaining deck of cards and develop a quick magic-preservation game plan. That night’s bedtime story session was particularly challenging. Michael had more than a few of his normally insightful questions.

“Well Kiddo, you know how Santa has helpers,” I fumble as he stares expectantly at me from his pillow with his big curious eyes. “…like the Santas that you see at school or the mall or the Christmas fair. Mommy and I are kind of like that. We help Santa.”

Sensing that we were more invested in his childhood than he was, Michael immediately angled for a way to exploit our error, “So can I help too… you know, by hiding the Elf?”

“Ummm.”

“Please, Dad.” Michael pleads. “I won’t say anything to Jane. I just really want to touch it first.”

With some trepidation we agreed to allow Michael to occasionally help hide the Elf. That Saturday, the last day of November, I left on a business trip and for a 25th year high school class reunion.

The very next day was December 1st and I woke up to the following text message from Wifey: “Ugh, want to hear some Shelf Elf drama? Well, Michael helped me set it up while the girls were playing in the snow. I tell him, ‘Don’t lead them to the Elf, let them find it.’ Literally 5 seconds later, he says, ‘Guys, I think the Elf on the Shelf came!’ Lo and behold, they find it and I say to the girls, ‘Remember, don’t touch the Elf. Let’s read the book to see why.’ I turn around to grab the book, and Jane’s friend touches it. Jane bursts into tears and runs to hug Uncle Jon who is just moseying out of bed to get coffee and is like, ‘What? I just woke up, drama already?’ We read the damn book, and then I google how to get the magic back. Apparently if you put cinnamon next to the Elf and sing it Christmas carols, it gets its magic back. Who knew? Now they are all singing, even Michael. I’m putting a splash of vodka in my coffee eggnog.”

I pick up the phone and call.

“Hey.” Wifey immediate answers.

“How’s the eggnog?”

“Strong.”

“Sounds like a rough morning.”

“Always exciting around here. How was the reunion?”

“Entertaining-ish, in a car-accident-kind-of-way.”

“Oh, come on…”

“It was fine. I might wait another 25 years to go to the next one though. Frankly the Elf drama sounds like a lot more fun. Good work on diffusing the tantrum.”

“Thanks. It wasn’t too awful.”

“Man, we are fighting to keep that magic.”

“It’s a war out there.”   

In past columns I’ve lamented about the ethical underpinnings of the Elf on the Shelf phenomenon, namely that brothers and sisters should spy on each other. This year we are just trying to have fun with the Elf. 

“Daddy, look where the Elf is… Look!” Jane shrieks with delight and pulls me into the pantry where the Elf has strategically inverted herself head first into our jar of white sugar.  

“I guess the cookies we left her weren’t enough,” I laugh.

“Yeah, she’s really can’t get enough sugar.”

“Reminds me of someone else I know...” I tickle Jane in the belly.

                This might be the last year for the Christmas magic for our family. Statistically, we are actually past the point of no return. According to the Exeter Santa Survey, 75% of 8-year-olds in the United States no longer believed in Santa and this seems to fit with a great deal of what Jane and Michael are learning from classmates at school. Wifey and I are committed though, despite early some missteps, we are in full fantasy-preservation mode. Wish us luck.